


much ado about adulthood

by rangerhitomi



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Adulthood, Aged-Up Character(s), Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Social drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-06-13 16:45:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15368931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rangerhitomi/pseuds/rangerhitomi
Summary: One day, Yuma accidentally grated off part of his thumb while shredding cheese, and this time it was his turn to go to the hospital.---Ryoga and Yuma try to navigate the ups and downs of adulthood together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a commission for Lukas! They wanted domestic sharkbait fluff, learning to be adults, and I hope this is a good start to what is going to be several chapters. I am unimaginably grateful for their very generous support of my sweet kitty Durbe, who is recovering from a very expensive week at the vet (for more info, check out my ko-fi /rangerhitomi).

The over-sterilized smell of the hospital was nothing new to Ryoga Kamishiro. He'd spent half his childhood in one; from the accident that killed his and Rio's parents to the daily visits to Rio's room while she was comatose to the nine or so times he ended up injured because of Yuma. It wasn't much of a surprise that he was, once again, in the hospital as a result of Yuma doing something careless or reckless. But he wasn't the patient this time, for a change.

"This is why O-Bots exist," the nurse chided Ryoga as he signed the discharge papers, "to do the work too dangerous and onerous for people."

"It was just cheese!" Yuma insisted, holding out his bandaged hand in a placating sort of way.

"Cheese graters are sharp and dangerous!"

"And O-Bots aren't?"

Ryoga sighed as he set the clipboard back on the desk and tugged Yuma along by his good hand.

"A bunch of O-Bots tried to kill us once!" Yuma called over his shoulder at the nurse, who was shaking her head, and Ryoga's lips twitched.

It was absurd, how they ended up here; Yuma had been making dinner while Ryoga worked on an article for publication in the next room, there was a mildly surprised "oh no" from the kitchen, and suddenly Yuma was standing at the doorway with what looked like half a roll of blood-soaked paper towels wrapped around his right thumb. He gave Ryoga a shy, pitiful smile that Ryoga was immediately suspicious of.

"So don't be mad, but I think part of my thumb is in the tacos."

As it turned out, Yuma, in his quest to grate cheese for dinner, had accidentally grated off part of his thumb. And thumbs bled. A lot. So Ryoga did what any concerned partner would do, and took Yuma to the hospital.

"They didn't even stitch it," Yuma said morosely, staring at his bandaged thumb as they walked. "It was too close to the bone. I could have cleaned it at home."

Ryoga thought about the sheer amount of blood Yuma had gotten all over the kitchen counter and sighed again. "Whatever. We're getting dinner while we're out."

Yuma pouted, an endearingly bizarre sight coming from a man over six feet in height. Ryoga marveled again at the fact that once Yuma hit his growth spurt, he had turned into a physical copy of his father, from the scruffy facial hair to the height to the toned body type. Ryoga had grown slender and tall, still four inches shorter than Yuma. It was almost unfair. "But I made tacos!"

"You told me you grated your thumb into the tacos."

"It was just a little piece off the top-"

"I'm not eating anything with bits of your flesh in it!"

" _Shark_ ," Yuma whined in that way he only did when he was trying to have his way, but Shark put his foot down on this one, because _I am absolutely not eating anything with_ _part of_ _your thumb in it, no matter how small._

They stopped by a street vendor to get some shrimp tempura before heading to a nearby park to eat it. The evening was hot, even for midsummer, but dozens of people were out, walking dogs or dueling or sitting on park benches eating ice cream. When they sat on a bench under a shady tree to eat their dinner, Yuma struggled with his chopsticks; the bandage around his thumb made his finger awkward and stiff, and therefore not terribly conducive to using chopsticks.

"See, I wouldn't have needed chopsticks if we could have just had tacos."

"Thumb tacos," Ryoga muttered under his breath, around a mouthful of tempura.

"Did you say something?"

Ryoga swallowed his food and bent over to Yuma's box, plucking a bit of the shrimp out with his own chopsticks. "Yeah, thanks for this tempura." And he popped it in his mouth.

Yuma pouted at him again. "Wow, _rude_."

"Oh I'm sorry," Ryoga said despite his mouth being full. "Did you want that?"

"Still looks good to me." Yuma's pout gave way to a mischievous smile as he leaned his face close to Ryoga.

 _Oh god, is he actually going to do it,_ Ryoga thought, leaning away in alarm.

"C'mon Shark, I'm hungry."

Ryoga snatched up a shrimp from his own box and shoved it in Yuma's face. "Eat the whole box if it keeps you from doing that again."

"'oing wha'?" Yuma asked with his usual lack of eating manners, bits of breading falling out of his mouth and onto the park bench.

"Trying to get me to feed you like a mother bird or something."

Yuma swallowed his mouthful of shrimp. "We've exchanged saliva before, no biggie."

Which was true, but not the point. "Saliva and food are two different things."

Yuma lifted an eyebrow and tilted his head. "Are they _really_ , though?"

They sat on the bench and bickered, Ryoga taking turns feeding himself and Yuma, until the sun began to set and the park emptied. With no more dogs barking or O-Bots bustling around cleaning up trash, the park was peaceful; the sky turned from a golden glow to cotton candy purple and pink as the sun sank beneath the horizon.

"This might have been worth the loss of those tacos," Yuma conceded, reaching his arm around Ryoga and pulling him into his shoulder.

"Not the loss of your finger," Ryoga muttered, nestling his head into a comfortable crook of Yuma's neck.

"My hand slipped."

"Sometimes that's all it takes."

"I'm fine," Yuma said dismissively. "The doctor said it'll heal normally. Might be a little scar on it," he added, holding his hand up to the deep purple sky.

"You could tell people you single-handedly fought off a rogue homicidal O-Bot," Ryoga suggested.

Yuma's laugh echoed throughout the dark, empty park.

* * *

 

Yuma was already home when Ryoga got in from a terrible day at work. A grant his team had applied for had been rejected, some vacation time he had requested had been denied because it coincided with a department audit (and now he would have to tell Yuma that their yearly camping trip would have to be delayed again), and his lunch had gone mysteriously missing (he suspected one of the first year graduate research assistants, whom he was reasonably sure he had seen hastily cleaning an empty container of what he was also reasonably sure was sticky rice in the restroom - never mind that there were signs everywhere that clearly told people to use the staff lounge to clean dishes because _food doesn't go in bathroom sinks_.)

He kicked off his shoes and dragged himself to the couch, where Yuma was lying half-off the cushion while flipping channels on the television with rhythmic precision that suggested he wasn't really paying attention to anything popping up on it.

"You too?"

Yuma grunted and let the remote slip out of his hand on some kind of "Learn English while you exercise!" workout channel. "I wrote a collections policy for the museum just last year and then the administration went ahead and acquired a bunch of crap that I have to accession individually and then find some magical space to store it so the papers don't turn to ash in three months."

"What kind of crap was it?"

Yuma sighed as the women on the screen chanted _I have a bad case of diarrhea!_ on repeat in English. "Photos, postcards, newspaper clippings... hundreds of them, that I have to enter individually into the database, take pictures of, assess for damage, and then re-store... _somewhere._ It's like four months of work, and _none_ of it has anything to do with ancient culture, which is the point of the entire museum!" He held up his hand. "Also I can't type, so that's been fun."

Ryoga lowered himself to the couch and Yuma shifted so Ryoga could lie down next to him. Yuma draped his bandaged hand over Ryoga's waist. "Did you tell them that you don't have anywhere to put more junk?"

"Oh, I told them." Yuma was behind Ryoga but he could still hear the scowl on Yuma's face. Ryoga pulled Yuma's hand closer and began unraveling the day-old bandages. "Pretty sure the collection came from one of the curating manager's old university pals, so I'll be reporting this to the board for an ethics violation."

"That's ridiculous."

"Mm." Yuma pressed his face deeper into the back of Ryoga's neck. "How was your day?"

His day had been equally lousy, and as he told Yuma about their failure to procure the grant, Yuma made a soft noise.

"I'm sorry."

Ryoga sort-of shrugged, at least the best he could with a 200-pound mass of muscle spooning him. "We're going to revise it and submit it to a couple other foundations, so."

"That's good. If you need someone else to take a look, I've written a few grants before."

Fifteen years ago, Ryoga never would have guessed that his dumb middle school crush would end up the collections manager at the largest museum in Heartland; Yuma had never put much work into his education compared to his dueling, at least until high school when he decided that he wanted to follow in his father's footsteps and work with ancient artifacts. His heart swelled with pride at Yuma's offer. "That sounds good. See if we missed something."

They fell into comfortable silence, Ryoga unwinding the last of the bandages to reveal a deeply gouged thumb. Already the muscles or tendons or whatever it was holding finger joints together were healing, stretched from one end of the injury to the other like little spiders weaving their web. It was at once absolutely disgusting and utterly fascinating.

Loathe as he was to interrupt their snuggling time, Ryoga gave Yuma's hand a quick squeeze. "Hey, doctor wants you to clean out this wound twice a day, let's go."

Yuma groaned. "That stuff stings."

"Don't worry, I'm here to hold your hand."

With a snort into the back of Ryoga's head, Yuma pushed himself awkwardly to his knees, body sinking into the cushions, and Ryoga's own body folded inward uncomfortably, the couch absorbing his much lankier frame. Yuma laughed and tried to pull Ryoga off the couch, only to drag himself back onto it, and Ryoga.

Being trapped between Yuma and the couch wasn't a unique occurrence. It was comforting, in a way, despite the lump of the cushion digging into Ryoga's lower back that would inevitably cause him some minor soreness the next day at work.

(It would be worth it.)

"Today kinda sucked, huh?" Yuma lifted himself onto his elbows to give Ryoga the chance to settle his lower body to a more comfortable position.

"Sure did." Ryoga wrapped an arm around Yuma's neck, pulling him back down.

"We should get totally smashed to forget about it." Yuma fumbled for the discarded remote control and flipped the television off in the middle of a robotic recitation of how to respond in English to being robbed by a masked American.

"It's Wednesday and we both have to work tomorrow."

"You're no fun."

Ryoga relaxed deeper into the cushions as they kissed; mindful of his injury, Yuma cradled the back of Ryoga's head with the palm of his hand as his thumb brushed Ryoga's jawline. One of Ryoga's hands combed through the magenta streaks in Yuma's hair while the other untucked Yuma's shirt and found its way up Yuma's toned back.

It was a blissful moment, sensual and pure and relaxing...

A loud buzzing sound tore them apart. Yuma swore under his breath as he gave the vibrating phone on the coffee table a glare that he might have hoped would cause it to catch fire.

Deliberately not moving the bottom half of his body, Yuma lifted himself off Ryoga and reached across to his phone, injured finger hovering over the green flashing "ACCEPT" button. A name Ryoga recognized as Yuma's boss flashed above it.

He stared at it for a moment, and Ryoga could feel the vibration through Yuma's fingers.

"You gonna answer that?"

The phone vibrated again with the same rhythmic urgency.

"Nah," Yuma said, pressed the red "REJECT" icon, and tossed it on the floor before turning his attention to Ryoga once more.


	2. Chapter 2

Ryoga woke first, as usual, to his alarm. He'd fallen asleep in his work clothes from the day before, which were wrinkled and slightly damp from sweat, and he grimaced as he shrugged Yuma's arm off his body and slid out of bed.

"Yuma," he said loudly, peeling off his shirt, "time to get up."

Yuma mumbled incoherently and buried his face deeper into his pillow.

"When I get back from my shower, you need to be up."

"Mmg."

Ryoga sighed and headed for the shower. He was in and out in ten minutes - five minutes longer than he needed to be, Yuma always chided him - and when he made his way back into the bedroom in his towel to get dressed, he was unsurprised to find Yuma still face-first in his pillow, sprawled over the entire bed.

The night before, they'd fallen asleep on the couch, and when Ryoga woke up at two in the morning with a sleeping arm and Yuma drooling on his shoulder, he'd spent five minutes prying himself free and ten more dragging Yuma's big frame to bed. He could have left Yuma on the couch and gone to bed on his own, but Yuma would have woken up with a sore neck and a million complaints (plus, Ryoga slept better knowing that Yuma was next to him).

He picked up his pillow and hit Yuma over the head with it. Yuma groaned and pulled his arm over his face.

"Wake up."

"I dun' wanna."

"You have to work."

"Why."

"Because we have to be able to afford to live our lavish lifestyle somehow and capitalism is the only way to do that."

"Capitalism sucks."

Ryoga snorted and tossed his pillow back on his bed before adjusting his tie in the floor mirror next to their closet. "Okay Marx. I'm going to go make coffee, you get yourself dressed."

They had the same routine almost every morning; Ryoga would get up first, Yuma would complain about having to get out of bed, Ryoga would make coffee, Yuma would come into the kitchen half-dressed and prepare breakfast.

Simple. Normal.

For a long time, it was more than Ryoga believed he deserved.

He put the coffee pot on and rummaged around in the cabinet for a couple of mugs. From the living room, he heard a faint buzzing sound; it took him a few seconds to realize that it was Yuma's phone that he'd tossed on the ground while they made out on the couch.

"Yuma!" he yelled. "Phone!"

There was a loud thud in the bathroom followed by Yuma hopping into sight, struggling to squeeze one leg in his pants as he swore around a toothbrush shoved in his mouth. Giving up on his pants, he flopped on the ground, snatched up the phone, pulled out the toothbrush, and hit the "accept" button.

"Hello, this is Yuma-"

The coffee pot began to fill. Ryoga tucked in his shirt.

"Today? When? _Now?_ I live twenty minutes away- fine, I'll be there, I'll be there. No, that's not necessary. I don't know, show them the collections or something, _I'll be there when I get there."_

He hung up and held up his hands.

"Coffee?" Ryoga suggested, pulling the pot from the warmer.

"No time today," Yuma grumbled, shoving the toothbrush back in his mouth and practically running into the bathroom to rinse his mouth.

Ryoga poured himself a mug and blew on it gently. "Late for a meeting?"

Yuma darted back into the living room, tucking his shirt in as he looked around for his wallet. Ryoga pointed to the coffee table. "Thanks. A big donor showed up and the board wants to talk about, I don't know, some nonsense. I have to be there in half an hour."

"Better get going then."

"Yeah." Yuma gave the coffee Ryoga was sipping a wistful look and kissed Ryoga on the forehead. "Sorry about breakfast, see you tonight."

"Okay. Have a good day."

Yuma made a face. "No chance of that happening." He shoved his feet into his shoes. "Love you."

He was out the door before Ryoga could respond, but he smiled over his coffee and said "love you" right back.

* * *

 

Being late for a meeting with a wealthy donor was only the second worst part of Yuma's morning. The first was skipping coffee.

"As you can see from the second quarter stocks, our endowment..."

Yuma stared at the chart on the screen, with its arrows and trends and different colors, and tried to pay attention. But the meeting seemed largely to be about stock options and taxes and frankly none of it made any sense. He caught himself nodding off a few times and had to shake his head to wake back up, something at least two of the board members seemed perfectly aware of, and since they were still annoyed he had ignored the phone call last night telling him to come in an hour early, he was trying extra hard not to look like he couldn't find the energy to care about anything they were saying.

The door opened.

Everyone turned to look as the Director of Operations walked through the door with a badly tied tie and a condensing, see-through cup of iced caramel frappe with too much whipped cream on it, and sat down next to Yuma without breaking eye contact with the speaker, legs crossed and arms resting regally on the sides of his chair.

They stared at each other for a moment before the conversation about stocks picked back up where it had left off.

Yuma leaned to the right, just slightly. "Your tie is crooked."

Durbe looked down and let out a quiet sigh. He adjusted it and it didn't look any better. "I thought I had it this time."

"You don't even like those sweet coffees."

"It's the appearance I was going for, not the coffee."

Translation: I wanted everyone to know I would rather stand in line for twenty minutes to get coffee than come to this meeting.

_Typical._

"Director, what are your thoughts on the stock options?"

Durbe took a long, slow sip of the frappe as he surveyed the chart on the screen. His fingers drummed the arm of his chair. "Tech stocks are still too high-risk."

"They did well last quarter."

"Three quarters ago, they fell four and a half percent before recovering only half of their lost value. They've barely made up the difference since then. Tech changes so rapidly that we could wake up tomorrow and find some tiny virtual reality startup has, I don't know, created some kind of massive online avatar marketplace and completely upended the tech giants."

Yuma chanced a look at his phone. They'd been in here for two hours. He could have completed three boxes of accessioning in this time. He still didn't know why he was there. He had also forgotten to charge his phone last night and it was only at thirty percent. Ryoga had forgotten to clean and wrap his thumb last night while they kissed on the couch and now it looked like a tiny ice cream scoop had removed part of his finger, right above his main joint.

Mmm... ice cream. Skipping breakfast was his third biggest regret of the day.

"Food companies have posted consistently modest gains, and are low-risk." Durbe took another sip. Yuma wasn't even sure he was really drinking any of it, since the whipped cream appeared to be at the exact level it was five minutes ago.

There was murmured assent throughout the room. Yuma joined in the nodding, since everyone appeared to be in agreement over whatever it was Durbe had just suggested and he wanted to look like he had even an iota of an idea of what was going on.

"Thank you for your input, Director. Chairperson...?"

The meeting continued. Yuma debated just getting up and casually walking out but the donor sat across from him at the table and he didn't want to get on their bad side when potentially thousands of dollars were on the line. He silently wished for someone to pull the fire alarm instead.

Such help never came, and it was past noon when the meeting finally adjourned and he practically threw himself out of his chair in his haste to leave.

"Yuma."

He stopped halfway down the hall and sighed. It was Durbe, who held out the mostly-full, mostly-melted frappe, which Yuma took and immediately began drinking.

"That was a colossal waste of time," Durbe said disapprovingly as they headed to the elevator. "Anyone who has even so much as glanced at trend histories would know that tech companies are the worst to buy long-term stock in. Banking on tech stocks to grow an endowment within a year before returning to low return stock investments is the worst idea I've ever heard at this museum."

"I'll take your word for it." Yuma tapped the button on the elevator that would take him down to the collections. "What floor?"

"Lower floor, I've got lunch... and another meeting." He scowled.

Yuma almost felt bad for him, but then reminded himself that Durbe made three times Yuma's salary and felt a bit better about Durbe's suffering. "Here, hold this-" He handed Durbe the now mostly-empty cup and adjusted Durbe's poorly-tied tie.

"Thanks." Durbe sighed, looking down at it. "Mizael usually fixes it for me, I can never do it right."

The elevator dinged and Durbe nodded at Yuma before stepping off. "Have a good day."

"Uh-huh, you too."

The doors closed again and took him one floor lower, where he could finally get his _actual_ work done.

* * *

 

Ryoga glanced at the litmus paper and waved the grad assistant over. "The pH in this tank is getting low, get it from six-nine back up to seven-two."

"Yes, sir."

He peered in another tank. "I only count six snails, where's the seventh?"

"It's been burying itself, I'll dig it back out."

He straightened up and sighed. His morning had consisted of ordering around overeager grad students, counting sucker fish, watching a jellyfish float around aimlessly in a tank and comparing it to the activity of two jellyfish together in another tank, and ensuring that the salt content and pH balance of the water was correct. The afternoon would consist of assisting one of the tenured professors in measuring mercury levels in local tuna; it was not his forte but he was low enough on the faculty roster to have to endure certain unpleasantries. It surely wouldn't be as bad as the time he'd helped dissect sea life with plastic in their stomachs.

"When you've finished your tasks, you get an hour for lunch before Dr. Yamada gets here."

He washed his hands and headed back to his office, pulling his phone from inside his coat pocket. Not only had Yuma not had coffee, he had no time for breakfast and he didn't grab lunch before leaving. The meeting was probably over by now, so he rattled off a quick text and sat down at his desk.

 

 

 

> >hey, how was the meeting

 

Yuma answered right away, so it was probably his lunch hour, too.

 

 

 

> >like four hours of stock options and  
>  other nonsense  
>  >it should be illegal to have meetings  
>  that long without offering free  
>  coffee, i'm dying
> 
> >what did that meeting have to do  
>  with you
> 
>  
> 
> >absolutely nothing  
>  >they just wanted to torture me  
>  >durbe was there though
> 
> >what'd he say
> 
> >something about stock options  
>  >he showed up an hour late with  
>  starbucks  
>  >he didn't even want it  
>  >he just wanted everyone to  
>  know that he valued standing  
>  in line more than that entire  
>  meeting
> 
> >lol sounds like him
> 
> >anyway how's your day
> 
> >having lunch and then gonna gut  
>  some tuna
> 
> >at least you get lunch first  
>  >so you don't lose your appetite
> 
> >true  
>  >oh yeah we have to reschedule our  
>  camping trip, something came up at  
>  work that weekend
> 
> >bummer
> 
> >i'm really sorry
> 
> >i'll make it up to you  
>  >we can do it the next weekend
> 
> >okay
> 
> > (;
> 
> >i'll grab dinner on the way home  
>  >what do you want
> 
> >not tuna
> 
>  
> 
> >damn i'm out of ideas
> 
> >lol  
>  >phone's dying  
>  >gotta get back to work anyway
> 
> >see you tonight, shark
> 
> >ok hope the rest of your day  
>  sucks less
> 
> >you too  
>  >but for real, no tuna

 

 

Ryoga set his phone on his desk and smiled.


	3. Chapter 3

Yuma was the kind of person who would steal the blanket in the middle of the night and then roll himself up in it and call himself a sushi roll. Despite sleeping under a separate blanket, Ryoga would often wake to find Yuma having stolen that one, too.

This was one such night.

On any other night, Ryoga would just curl up closer to Yuma, to take in his body heat, but he always slept restlessly when his feet were cold, and wearing socks to bed was a sin punishable by death. He needed to get up extra early so he could sit on straight-backed wooden chairs through a nine-hour seminar at the university with nothing but terrible, lukewarm coffee and week-old complimentary biscuits to consume, and doing that on no sleep was the third circle of hell.

He spent ten minutes carefully tugging the blanket from under Yuma, but just when he thought he had it, Yuma let out a tremendous snore and rolled over on his side, undoing all of Ryoga's work.

"Oh for god's sake," Ryoga grumbled.

Shifting closer to Yuma, he tucked his feet at the least uncomfortable angle under Yuma's accumulated bedsheets and blankets and pushed himself into Yuma's back for warmth.

He slept poorly, knowing that tomorrow was going to be a long, long day.

* * *

 

It was a long, long day.

He had three cups of coffee before the first seminar even started, standing in the corner by a fake potted plant while chugging the lukewarm beverage like he would die without it, and grunted at anyone who tried to introduce themselves to him, only for them to get irate when he didn't tell them his name.

Kamishiro Ryoga, Doctoral Candidate, Heartland University. It was right there on his badge. He assumed anyone who had a PhD in marine biology had learned how to read at some point.

The first lecture was about endemic aquatic plant life, the second about the effects of pollution on coastal economies. The coffee wasn't kicking in---no, that wasn't quite true. It was. But only for his nerves. His leg bounced uncontrollably as he rolled and unrolled the lecture program guide between his shaky hands. He glanced at his phone, ignoring the scathing glare of the woman next to him, and found to his dismay that it was only nine-thirty. He thought about sneaking out under the pretense of going to the toilet and hiding in a closet to take a nap instead, but he'd somehow ended up sitting in the middle of the row, where he'd have to climb over at least nine people on either side before getting to the aisle.

 _If I yelled "fire" would I get arrested?_ he wondered.

He fidgeted with the guide some more before the woman next to him snatched it out of his hand and shoved it under her seat. He rubbed his hands together instead and she gave him a look that clearly signaled her desire to throttle him. A quick glance at her name tag. From Neo Domino University. Typical snobs.

Another glance at his phone. Nine-fifty.

With an exaggeratedly loud sigh, he leaned forward, head in his hands.

* * *

 

There was no reason why this photo collection should be here, in a museum of ancient history, when literally four blocks away there was a modern gaming museum that old duel tournament photos _should_ go to.

Yuma glanced over at the piles of boxes of irrelevant artifacts, then over at the shelves full of actually relevant artifacts that he _needed_ to be accessioning but couldn't because some moron thought _hey, yeah, let's accept this collections donation even though we don't have room for it or the staffing to accession it._

Leaning back in his chair, he sighed and reached for his phone.

The collections manager of the Heartland Duelist's Museum answered promptly. "This is Sadatoshi."

"Hey, it's Yuma." Yuma glanced at the barely-touched coffee Durbe had brought down to him and wondered whether injecting it straight into his veins would be an unpleasant scenario. "Got a donation in last week and we don't have the room or the need for it."

"Why'd you take it?"

"I've asked myself this question all week."

"What is it?"

Yuma pulled a box close. Using his shoulder to prop up his phone, he pulled on a pair of cotton gloves before reaching into it. "Bunch of photographs, mostly. Some buttons, a few t-shirts."

"How old?"

"Mmm." Yuma pulled out a stack of pictures and shuffled through them. The setting of the pictures looked vaguely familiar. "Fifteen years. From the World--"

He froze, staring down at one of the pictures.

"Yuma?"

"Um, sorry, from the... from the World Duel Carnival."

"Oh yeah, didn't you win that? You know, despite the collapsing buildings and whatnot, it's a shame that didn't become a yearly event, it was really..."

Sadatoshi continued talking but Yuma stared at the picture in his hands. This particular picture was taken from above, with a young man lying on the ground, smiling up at the person hovering over him. But Yuma didn't need the picture to remember the exact moment that Kamishiro Ryoga threw a semi-final match to save Tsukumo Yuma's life.

"Yuma?" Sadatoshi said again.

"Mm? Oh, yeah, um, look, I can bring these by, if you want. We can..." He dug distractedly in the box for other pictures he might recognize. "We can sign over the artifacts on the--"

Another picture, this one of Tron and Kaito.

"On the donation agreement," he managed.

"You okay?"

Several pictures of the buildings collapsing. Yuma remembered that particular incident a little differently.

"Yeah."

"You sound distracted."

"Uh, yeah, just... trying to multitask... I'll bring the boxes by next week if you want."

"Yeah, the artifacts sound like they'd be good in the fifteen year WDC exhibit we're opening in the fall. You know, the one whose opening you're speaking at? I'm sure we can find room for them, I'll run it by our curator."

Yuma had completely forgotten he'd agreed to speak at the opening. They'd asked him months ago and he'd agreed without really giving it much thought. "Thanks."

He hung up and set his phone next to his computer before sinking back into his chair.

There were too many memories of the WDC flooding into him now; the whole tournament had been fun, in a way, but plenty of it still gave him nightmares even fifteen years later. He pulled his gloves off and scooted closer to his desk, unlocking his phone with one finger. He started to type out a text and froze.

 _Everything turned out fine,_ he reminded himself, and then repeated it in his head six more times before he could close out of the messaging app.

The vibration of the phone startled him so much he nearly fell out of his chair.

 

> How illegal is it to pull a fire alarm under false pretenses

Yuma lifted an eyebrow, suddenly glad he'd managed to talk himself out of texting Ryoga first.

 

> I see the seminars are going well
> 
> have you ever listened to a phd from  
>  neo domino university talk for longer than  
>  two minutes
> 
> yikes
> 
> this is the worst day of my life
> 
> ryoga you died three times
> 
> I'm about to die again
> 
> ok but kaito isn't getting the tv,  
>  i'm still using it
> 
> ha ha  
>  do me a favor
> 
> ok
> 
>   
>  get dinner, but no fish  
>  NO FISH  
>  I'm going to be late coming home  
>  since this seminar has gone over  
>  two hours because nobody knows  
>  that "does anyone have any questions"  
>  is actually rhetorical
> 
> let me play my violin for you

Ryoga's response was a frowny emoji with angry eyebrows but he didn't say anything further. Yuma could only assume he was stuck sitting next to someone who kept trying to confiscate his phone because _we're at a meeting of scholars_ and _something something_ _unprofessional._

He found a bit of sympathy in him for Ryoga's plight, but when he looked at the box again his smile faded.

"Okay," he told himself out loud, "put the boxes in a corner and get back to the Spanish galleons."

Categorizing and accessioning artifacts was occasionally tedious, but not mindless. He had to pay attention to every piece of data entered into the system, correctly label and store each piece in acid-free papers and boxes, and make note of any artifacts that needed special cleaning or fixing. The afternoon passed quickly, and before he knew it, it was five o'clock and time to leave. He noted the last box he'd worked in on his calendar and carefully placed it back on a shelf.

It was finally the weekend.

* * *

 

True to his predictions, Ryoga didn't get home until past seven o'clock, though it would have been later if he hadn't seized upon a physical altercation between two rival oceanographers and slipped out. The entire train ride home was longer than usual because he fell asleep standing up and ended up six stops away from his home station.

So when he dragged himself through the front door, he was ready to go straight to bed.

He froze at the sight of Yuma sitting at the coffee table, a huge bowl of rice balls next to him and a Duel Monsters deck in front of him.

Ryoga slid his bag to the floor and set it next to the front door, stepping out of his shoes. Yuma was already dressed for bed, wearing a too-tight shirt and boxer shorts, but he gave Ryoga a smile as they made eye contact.

"Hi."

"Hey."

"That good, huh?"

"I want to sleep for two full days. But first we need to have another talk about you stealing my blanket again."

Yuma laughed, though something about it seemed off. "Sorry... I don't notice I'm doing it. I'll try wrapping myself a little tighter tonight so I don't get grabby." He gestured toward the bowl. "I got these on the way home."

Ryoga knelt across the table from Yuma and picked up a rice ball. "Thanks. They look good."

"No prob. They're not as good as Gran's were, but... well, they're good."

They ate in silence for a few minutes, Ryoga perfectly aware of the deck sitting to the side of Yuma's plate but not saying anything because if Yuma wanted to explain, he would, on his own time.

It didn't take long.

"You know how I told you about the new collection that I got dumped on me?" Yuma blurted out, eyes on his deck.

Ryoga reached slowly for another rice ball. "Mm-hm. Why?"

Yuma sighed. "A lot of it was WDC stuff."

"...I see."

"Some of the pictures were of--of us. You know. After the... the semifinal."

Ryoga's eyes darted to Yuma's deck and back to his face. "Oh."

"That was a hard time," Yuma whispered.

"I know." Ryoga hesitated before reaching his hand across the table and gripping Yuma's with it.

"I almost lost you. You and--"

"I know."

His knees cramped as they sat in another silence, this time longer than the first. Neither touched the remaining food in the bowl; neither really moved.

There was a reason Yuma had brought out his deck, Ryoga knew. Yuma wouldn't ask the question first, so Ryoga took it upon himself. "Want to duel?"

Yuma's gaze flicked upward. "Is it... are you..."

"Yeah. Let me clean up and grab my deck."

Yuma got to his feet first and picked up the bowl before Ryoga could convince his cramping knees to straighten out. "No, I'll clean up, you go get changed."

There was no point in arguing with his leg half asleep, so Ryoga managed to drag himself to their room and undress, tossing his name badge in the trash pail. His fingers touched a pair of flannel pajamas and a light t-shirt first, so he pulled them on and headed to his office, where he was pretty sure he had last left his deck.

They hadn't dueled in a long time.

Dueling without virtual reality was more relaxing than Ryoga remembered; with no solid vision, there was no chance of injury outside of a paper cut.

He won the first match, and Yuma the second, and they were halfway through the tiebreaker when Yuma smiled.

"I forgot how fun this was."

"Fun? I'm about to kick your ass."

They both laughed as Yuma activated Excalibur's ability, doubling its attack, and Ryoga managed to scrape by with 600 life points. He drew, and went to work on a combo.

They lost track of how many duels they played, and ended up falling asleep on the living room floor.


	4. Chapter 4

"Ready?"

"No."

"One... two..."

"Wait, what are you counting t--aaaaa _hhhhh!"_

"Three."

" _Son_ of a--"

"Hold still!"

" _You_ hold still!"

"Quit yelling, the neighbors are going to think I'm murdering you."

Yuma clenched his teeth together as Ryoga set down the bottle of peroxide he had just dumped over Yuma's slightly-oozing thumb injury and went to work wrapping a bandage around it. To his credit, Yuma was no longer yelling, but Ryoga wished he would stop stomping on the floor; the downstairs neighbors were going to be irate about the noise.

"There, that wasn't so bad."

Yuma snorted so hard it sounded as though he were hacking up a lung. "Yeah, okay."

"Maybe if you cleaned it regularly, it would be healed properly by now, but no, it's getting infected instead."

"Maybe if peroxide didn't feel like the devil's spit I would be more inclined to use it."

"Quit being a baby. We're going to be late."

Sure enough, Rio and Kotori had already ordered their food when Yuma and Ryoga arrived at the restaurant, Ryoga looking tired and Yuma sulky. Rio was in the process of showing some sketches to Kotori when Ryoga sat down heavily next to her.

"Oh, there you are. Thought you might have tried to ditch us."

"I had to administer some first aid." Ryoga gave Yuma a side glance. Yuma pouted and picked up a glass of water sitting in front of him.

"Did you do something to your finger?" Kotori asked.

"Got into a knife fight with the yakuza," Yuma muttered into his glass, and Ryoga covered his laugh with an unconvincing cough.

Kotori rolled her eyes and resumed chatting with Rio about the sketches, which Ryoga could now see were some fashion designs. Judging by the expensive restaurant Rio had chosen and the equally expensive clothing she wore, it seemed she was doing quite well for herself. Kotori, too; she was Rio's favorite model for her designs, and had taken the coveted cover page of at least three major fashion magazines in the last year.

When the food came to the table, Ryoga thought fleetingly of his bank account.

"Thanks for paying for this extraordinarily expensive meal, Rio," he said conversationally, helping himself to some crab as Yuma cursed under his breath while trying to balance his chopsticks with his stiff thumb.

"Excuse me?"

Ryoga didn't bother swallowing before replying, though his mouth wasn't so full it was unintelligible. "You picked the restaurant, so you pay. I work in academia, if this were up to me we'd be eating ramen."

Yuma abandoned the chopsticks for a spoon, which he held awkwardly as he shoveled food in his mouth. He nodded fervently.

With an overexaggerated eyeroll, Rio shrugged. "Whatever. Just this once, dear brother."

_Well, that went suspiciously well._ "How's work been?"

"Busy." Rio sipped some water. "We'll be leaving for New York next Thursday and I'm sure the show is going to be extra stressful."

Of course; they had been planning the trip for several months now. Some big fashion show in America, where Rio was the only Japanese designer and Kotori her stalwart model. They were both famous in Japan but it was their biggest opportunity to introduce themselves to the world.

"You'll be fine," Ryoga said before shoving some crab into his mouth. He sounded indifferent but Rio's barely concealed smile told him that she knew he was trying to be supportive.

"Oh no," Yuma said next to him, in almost the exact same voice he'd used when he'd grated half his thumb off, and Ryoga closed his eyes with a sigh.

Fortunately, he hadn't injured himself, but his bandaged hand had given up on holding the spoon and he'd subsequently dropped it -- and the miso soup on it -- onto his lap.

"Oh, Yuma," Kotori said with a sigh of her own, setting aside her napkin and getting up to help him stand. "Let's get you cleaned up."

"I can walk," Yuma said irritably, but he didn't protest when she grabbed him by the arm and dragged him off to the washroom, leaving Rio laughing silently into her rice and Ryoga rubbing his temples. When the two were out of sight and Yuma's whines had faded, Rio set down her chopsticks and peered at Ryoga pensively.

"What."

"How are things between you?"

Ryoga frowned across the table. "Fine?"

"I mean it, Ryoga."

"So do I, we're doing fine. Work is stressful for the both of us but we're... we're happy."

He meant it; despite everything at work being generally crappy as of late and the unexpected resurgence of some of Yuma's latent traumatic memories, Ryoga was content with life. Six years of therapy, heavily encouraged by both Yuma and Durbe, had helped Ryoga overcome some of his own past traumas.

Still, it was hard to talk about some things to a therapist. For those, Yuma was a more than adequate sounding board.

She carefully chewed some sushi and watched him with those shrewd eyes. "Still have a good sex life?"

Ryoga turned to see where Yuma and Kotori were, since surely they were on their way back. It had only been like two minutes since they left. He shouldn't expect anything to get him out of this one.

"Rio," he mumbled, ears burning. The most intimate thing they'd done in the past month was make out on the couch. He was fine with that, but now that Rio was prying, he began to wonder if Yuma was. He never liked having that conversation, but maybe they were overdue for it. He felt his face grow hot too.

"Ryoga."

"We are perfectly happy."

"Okay." She didn't pry, which was a miracle, and they returned to eating in silence...

...for about one minute, until she set down her chopsticks and stared at him again.

"What now."

"Thought about marriage?"

" _Rio_." His voice was an undignified whine.

"Look." She leaned forward. "You've been together a long time--"

"And we've been doing just fine."

She rolled her eyes. "I know you have. And I'm happy for you. But can you honestly say you haven't contemplated what it would feel like to call Yuma your husband instead of... whatever it is you refer to him as?"

He had, and often, and Rio knew that, too.

"He's my partner," he muttered.

The sound of Yuma complaining shattered the uncomfortable atmosphere between the twins.

"I'm just saying, a little bit of soup isn't nearly as obvious as you dumping water all over my crotch!"

"The soup will stain!"

"These pants are black!"

"Water dries faster than soup, Yuma."

"Not fast enough. You're a model, don't you have a blow dryer in your purse?"

"Wow, stereotyping much?"

"You do, don't you."

"Shut up?"

They returned to their seats, Yuma scowling as he dabbed at his now-soaked pants with his napkin.

The rest of lunch passed in idle chatter, with Kotori and Yuma doing most of the talking. Ryoga focused on finishing his food with such intensity that he barely heard any of the conversations going on next to him. A few times, he could see Yuma in his peripheral, head tilted his direction; near the end of lunch, Yuma had scooted closer and set his good hand on Ryoga's knee, giving him a small squeeze.

It was a testament to how much Yuma had grown aware of Ryoga's social comfort that he didn't question whether something was bothering him. He knew, and Ryoga knew he knew. They would hold off on the inevitable conversation until they got home, and then Yuma wouldn't let him leave the sitting room until they'd talked out all their feelings. And then hugged out. And then kissed out. And then--

"Well," Rio said after an eternity, "we've got to be on our way. Stay out of trouble."

Yuma jumped to his feet and hugged both women. "Have a safe trip."

Kotori patted his back fondly. "We will. Good luck with your accessioning." She reached for Ryoga, who returned the hug with an awkward twist of the arm, as she was half a foot shorter than he was. "And good luck with your research."

"Thanks," Ryoga mumbled, walking alongside Yuma as Rio finished paying the tab.

(He'd caught a glimpse of the price of the meal and was infinitely relieved he'd convinced Rio to pay it.)

Once outside, Yuma and Ryoga went one way, and Rio and Kotori the other, sending each other off with a cordial wave of the hand. When they finally turned back around and headed toward their apartment, Yuma slipped his hand around Ryoga's.

The walk home was silent. In a way, Ryoga welcomed it; he had time to think about how to approach the myriad of uncomfortable questions he'd been dwelling on and put off like an undergrad term paper for a class he knew he was going to tank. But the silence also meant that he _had time to dwell on it_ , and the longer they went, the more uncomfortable directions his mind took him in.

Marriage wasn't a topic they had really addressed before, not in any meaningful way, and that was fine because they'd cohabited for so long that they might as well be. But what if Yuma wanted it, and because Ryoga had never asked directly and Yuma had never voiced it clearly, they were trapped in a misunderstanding and Yuma was harboring some resentment over it and--

Before he realized it, the front door was closed, his shoes were on the shoe rack, and Yuma was gently pulling him toward the sofa.

"Ryoga," he said softly, and Ryoga knew things were serious because Yuma still held onto the stupid middle school nickname when they were alone and for him to call Ryoga by his name in private meant that Yuma was either mad about something or concerned. Ryoga shifted on the cushions to let Yuma lean into him more comfortably.

(Despite the fact that Ryoga was several inches shorter, Yuma liked to be held more than to do the holding.)

Last week, Ryoga had knelt across the coffee table and dueled Yuma for the first time in ages as a way to comfort Yuma's anxiety. He hated that Yuma had to be the one now to do the same for him.

"Lunch was good," Ryoga said, trying to stall for time.

"Mm." Yuma rested his arm against the back of the sofa and leaned close to Ryoga. His right hand slid along Ryoga's thigh and Ryoga's breath hitched in his throat. "What's up?"

_Nothing_ was a stupid deflection so Ryoga didn't even bother to try it. "Can... can we talk about something?"

"Of course."

Sleep suddenly sounded really good, only it was mid afternoon and Yuma was expecting Ryoga to ask a question that he knew would be more serious than "want to take a nap?" so he sighed before asking his fingers "Are you happy?"

He wasn't looking at Yuma but he knew what Yuma's expression was: eyebrow lifted, head tilted, puzzlement in his eyes. "Like, in general?"

"Yeah."

"Hmm." Ryoga chanced a glance at Yuma's face, all scrunched up like he was fifteen years younger again. Ryoga didn't know whether this reaction was good or bad. "I suppose my job could be less monotonous, and sometimes I'd rather curate than accession, but--"

"I mean, here. With me."

Yuma made a soft noise through his nose, something between amusement and irritation, or maybe disbelief. "If I wasn't, I wouldn't be here."

There were plenty of stories on the internet about people who stayed in unhappy relationships for many reasons, and Ryoga was about to say so when Yuma interrupted.

"Are _you_ happy?"

"I asked you."

"And I answered." Yuma sighed and moved away so he was an arm's length away from Ryoga. "Shark, this is something that has always frustrated me about you. No matter what you do, you don't think you deserve the same things the people around you deserve. The good things, I mean."

"Do I really deserve it?" Ryoga asked before he could help himself, and Yuma's sigh was twice as loud this time.

"See, that's it. You're so hard on yourself!" Yuma jabbed his fist into Ryoga's shoulder. It was a light jab but still almost knocked Ryoga over. "You build other people up and put yourself down. Like, you're getting a PhD!" He jabbed Ryoga again, and Ryoga did flop over onto his back this time. "That's goddamn amazing! _You're_ goddamn amazing! Yes, I'm happy, but I'd be happier if you were happy, too."

Before Ryoga could gauge what was going on, Yuma was on top of him and they were kissing.

It felt so good.

"Yuma," Ryoga managed when he pushed away for air, "what do you think of marriage?"

"Mm." Yuma's teeth latched onto Ryoga's collarbone for a moment, and Ryoga thought he would stop breathing again. "Is this a proposal?"

"Just checking the temperature."

"I have no idea what that means, but as long as you don't expect me to take your surname--"

"What, you don't want to be Kamishiro Yuma?"

"Don't kid yourself, I know you used to scribble 'Tsukumo Ryoga' all over your notebooks in high school."

"Rio's full of shit and you know it."

Yuma laughed, his warm breath condensing on Ryoga's neck. "This couch isn't great for this."

Ryoga's stomach fluttered. Not uncomfortably. "It's eating me alive."

"Well, then--"

They spent a long twenty seconds untangling themselves from the other, and when Yuma got to his feet, he bent down and picked Ryoga up with ease despite his hand. That he held him bridal-style was not lost on either of them, and Ryoga felt more than his face warm.

"May I escort you to our chambers, my dear?" Yuma teased, face split in an evil grin. Absolutely precious, and evil.

"God, I love you," Ryoga replied, swinging his arm over Yuma's shoulders.

Yuma carried him toward their room, Ryoga dangling from his arms, and suddenly Ryoga had a surge of emotions hit him all at once: nervousness, excitement, anxiety...

But the one that overtook him the strongest as Yuma set him on the bed was happiness.


	5. Chapter 5

Yuma was home first; Ryoga could hear him talking to himself in the office room. Since Yuma never used the office for work the way Ryoga did, and since he didn't acknowledge Ryoga coming through the front door, he must be very focused on whatever it was he was doing.

Ryoga put a pot of coffee on to boil and opened the refrigerator to find something to cook for dinner, completely forgetting until he stared at the half-empty bottle of soy sauce and half a pepper that was definitely Yuma's that he was supposed to buy groceries three days ago.

He wasn't usually _this_ forgetful, not when it came to making sure they had food, anyway. And he felt terrible for it, since Yuma hadn't said anything and he knew Yuma was probably going to start feeling resentful that Ryoga couldn't do something so simple as--

The coffee was finished, and Ryoga shook himself out of his spiral.

Yuma sat at Ryoga's desk, head resting on the palm of his hand while the pencil in his other hand hovered over a piece of paper covered in eraser smudges and crossed-out words. The eraser was misshapen, a victim of voracious chewing; Yuma's habit of biting the end of pencils when nervous was clearly at fault. Ryoga set the coffee on a coaster next to him and tilted his head at the paper.

Without looking up, Yuma snatched the coffee mug up and lifted it to his mouth.

"Careful, it's--"

Yuma sputtered the coffee back into the mug, tongue sticking out. "H-hot..."

Ryoga sipped at his. "Yeah, anyway, it's hot."

With a dramatic sigh, Yuma leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling. "This is the worst."

"What is it?" Ryoga pulled the paper closer and examined the little of the scratchy kanji he could make out. "A speech?"

Yuma groaned in affirmation.

"For... what?"

"Remember when the dueling museum asked me to speak for the fifteenth anniversary of the World Duel Carnival? That's in like two weeks."

Ryoga lifted an eyebrow. "And you're working on it _now_?"

"I know, I _know_ , I've known about it for like six months..."

"No, I mean... two whole weeks early?"

Yuma lobbed a pen in Ryoga's direction. It missed by several inches.

"Hey." Ryoga rubbed Yuma's shoulders. "This week kind of sucked, so let's go out tonight."

Yuma's head lolled forward as Ryoga rubbed. "Go out... where..."

"We haven't seen Alit or Gilag in a while?"

"You wanna go to BARian?"

"I kind of want a drink. We can invite Durbe and Mizael and--" He mentally ticked off the list of his fellow Barians and came up with two more, one of whom was still in America. "Durbe and Mizael."

Yuma didn't question the omission. "All right. I could use a break."

* * *

 

Alito nearly crushed his spine in greeting when they arrived at BARian at half-past seven. When Yuma picked Alito up, Alito dangled a foot from the ground.

"Hey, hey, hey! Haven't seen you two in ages."

"Busy with work," Ryoga grumbled, already beginning to regret leaving the house, despite it having been his idea. "Durbe and Mizael here yet?"

Gilag ambled up, phone in hand. Pop idol music poured from it as he, very focused, tapped his screen repeatedly. The song reached a dramatic end and he yelled "NO" at it in anguish. Very few of the bar's other patrons so much as looked up at him.

"No, they're running behind, apparently," Alito replied, apparently unbothered by Gilag's outburst.

(Ryoga figured he could ask why Gilag was now yelling something about a perfect combo but decided it was best not to.)

"Okay, well, I want a beer," Yuma said, seating himself at the counter. Ryoga followed suit.

"Tap or bottle?"

"What's cheapest?"

As Alito explained the three different kinds of beer that tied for the cheapest, Ryoga consulted the mixed drink menu. Behind him, Gilag wiped down tables while angrily humming something that sounded vaguely like Sanagi-chan's first international hit some eighteen years ago.

"What's the 'surprise' in 'Stardust Surprise'?" Ryoga wondered.

Alito handed a man a vodka and cream soda refill and shrugged at Ryoga. "Milk."

Ryoga set down the menu and ordered the same beer as Yuma.

The dim, reddish atmosphere was somewhat of a comfort -- it was no accident that Alit and Gilag chose this particular ambiance for their bar -- and Ryoga, nearing the bottom of his third terrible beer, was relaxing.

Until someone sat next to Yuma, grabbed him by the hand, and held it up to the dim light.

"Still no ring?"

Ryoga stood up, slamming his beer bottle on the counter with so much force that the bottles nearby rattled. Several people looked up, having sensed trouble even over the moderately loud pop music pouring from the speakers. "Get out."

"Oh, is this _your_ bar now?"

Of everyone that could have come to the bar tonight, Ryoga wanted to see Vector the least. He probably would have been perfectly content going the rest of this life without ever seeing Vector again, but if he had to, he at least wanted to deck that smug face.

Yuma threw out an arm and pushed Ryoga back, wrenching his hand free of Vector's. "Ryoga, don't."

Vector popped his head up over Yuma's shoulder, a twisted grin on his face. "Still not married? Afraid of commitment, Naschy?"

"Let me punch him _once_."

"Not in my bar, you're not." Alito hopped the counter and pushed himself between Vector and Yuma's turned back. "I'm not in the mood to file a police report."

By now, most of the other patrons had turned their attention to the counter, some with annoyed looks and others who seemed almost excited at the prospect of a brawl.

"Ryoga," Yuma warned, "let's get some air."

It was for the best (so Vector said over Yuma's shoulder, though Ryoga only admitted it to himself with the utmost reluctance), so Ryoga let Yuma lead him back toward the door. A few people milled about smoking; Yuma kept walking until they were out of the haze and out of earshot.

"I don't expect you to be friends with him," Yuma began, and Ryoga snorted.

"After everything he did to me? To Rio? To _you_?"

"That was fifteen years ago."

"I had three lifetimes of him."

Yuma sighed and shook his head. "I know, really. But I need you to at least be civil while we're in public."

"He never apologized or even _tried_ to make amends for _anything_ he did," Ryoga pointed out.

"Be the bigger person, Shark." Yuma put his hands on his hips and tilted his head, casting the most meaningful _just ignore him and we'll be fine_ look he could muster, and Ryoga bit back the _how can I ignore him when he's made it his life goal to irritate the hell out of me at every opportunity_ and sighed instead.

"Can we just go home?"

"This was your idea, Shark."

And Yuma grabbed him by the hand and dragged him back into the bar.

Vector, mercifully, was sitting at a table at the other end of the room, chatting up a table of what might have been college kids. Gilag sat hunched at the bar, fingers repeatedly slamming his phone screen as he squinted at it with intense concentration.

"The blend you use here is mediocre at best," Durbe was saying to Alito, who had his arms crossed and a pout on his face.

"There's a sign _on the door_ that says _no outside food or drink_ and yet--"

Durbe shrugged and took a slow sip from his coffee cup, not breaking eye contact with Alito.

"Do you have pretzels?" Mizael said without looking up from his own phone.

Alito threw up his hands and stormed behind the counter.

"Hey," Yuma greeted.

"Ah, there you are." Durbe gestured to a nearby table, and Yuma sat, followed by Ryoga. Durbe wore an argyle sweater over khakis; Mizael had on the tightest jeans Ryoga ever seen, under a British rock band tee and an open plaid button-down. They made an odd combination, though Mizael at least fit in at a bar better than Durbe _I Just Walked Out of A_ _Law School_ _Library From the 1970s_ Last Name Barian. "Sorry for being late."

"We're only late because Durbe had to go three blocks out of our way to get some coffee," Mizael interjected, setting his phone down.

"I wasn't drinking the medium roast stale garbage beans that Alito keeps in the back," Durbe said, the argyle look really hammering home the pretentiousness.

Alito dropped a bag of pretzels in front of Mizael. "I heard that."

"I know you did."

Mizael eyed the beer menu, mouth twisting. "Do you have any beer that doesn't taste like wheat water?"

"You guys come here just to criticize all the beverages or what?"

Durbe tilted his head as though seriously considering it.

"I'll take a white wine," Mizael said, tossing the beer menu back on the table.

"You want that in a wine glass too?"

"Do you have one?"

Alito rolled his eyes and walked away.

"I also want some pretzels!" Durbe called after him, and Alito flipped him off without turning around. He crossed paths with Gilag, who had finally stopped smashing his phone with his thumbs and was now heading over to join the group.

"So nice of you to join us in the land of the living," Mizael commented, opening his pretzels.

"This event ends tonight so I had to rank up."

"Rank up... what?" Ryoga asked, setting down his beer.

"It's a rhythm game called _Live Love_."

"Sounds vaguely familiar." Ryoga frowned at the wall.

"Mm." Yuma swallowed his beer, nodding vigorously. "It's what wine moms in America paint on wooden signs that they hang in the entry hall."

Durbe choked on his coffee. Mizael patted his upper back, completely ineffectually. "Is that one of those games that people have gone into debt to play, or...?"

Gilag held out his phone and tilted it for Mizael and Durbe to see, either not hearing Mizael's response or choosing to ignore it. "You scout for pop idols, and every day you get to roll for a new one. This is my band! Aren't they cute!"

Durbe lifted his coffee to his mouth and hummed _mm_ in lieu of a proper response, though he coughed a little still.

Mizael peered at the screen and lifted a skeptical eyebrow. "These are all the same girl wearing six different wigs."

Gilag refused to talk to him for half an hour.

Ryoga started to relax as the evening wore on. Durbe rambled on for five minutes about tech stocks plummeting that morning and how he was right about not risking _something something_ dividends _something_ retirement funds _something_ excessively long board meetings that he hated sitting through. Yuma, who had probably heard all of this already, was sitting next to Gilag, watching him button smash on his phone with mild interest, as pop music that Ryoga secretly liked but would never admit in front of the others poured from it. Mizael complained about how his wine had come in a plastic cup _(what about the whales)_ , and Alito gestured to the recycling bin _(the whales are fine as long as you don't put the cup in the trash bin)_.

Yuma got drunker and drunker, and it didn't help that someone (Ryoga had a vague suspicion who) had anonymously bought Yuma three shots, which Yuma downed enthusiastically before grabbing for Durbe, who was staring morosely into the bottom of his empty coffee cup as though willing it to fill itself back up.

"Hey, this song is fun, dance with me."

"I don't--"

Durbe's objections turned into an indignant squawking sound as Yuma grabbed him and dragged him into the middle of the floor; he wobbled as he grabbed Durbe's hands and started spinning them around as Yuma sang, horribly off-key, to the song.

Alito roared with laughter at the sight and Gilag looked up from his game to join him. Even Mizael, who rarely laughed with anything resembling mirth, wheezed over his second cup of wine.

"Maaan," a voice chuckled behind Ryoga, wiping the grin from his face, "I can't believe you left that guy in charge of us for so long."

Ryoga took a deep breath and forced himself to loosen his grip on the neck of his beer bottle. "Maybe," he said through gritted teeth, "I wouldn't have had to if you hadn't, I don't know, _killed me._ "

Vector took Yuma's vacated chair. From the dance floor, Durbe yelled something about his back. "What goes around comes around."

"You killed me first."

"Now, now, let's not argue about who killed who first."

"You never even apologized."

"Okay, okay, geez, sorry for killing you." At Ryoga's sharply lifted eyebrow, Vector rolled his eyes and slouched in his chair. "And trying to kill you."

_("Put me down, put me down, put me d-aaaaaah!")_

"That's not convincing."

"Kinda hard to apologize for murder, especially since I, you know, didn't really feel bad about it at the time." Vector shrugged. "Or... now, really."

"Wow, I was almost starting to tolerate you for a second there."

"Look, you don't like me and I don't like you and that's cool but I genuinely think that you and Yuma should just get married and be done with it."

Ryoga snorted and pushed his nearly-empty beer bottle away from him as Yuma tried to lift a now-screaming Durbe over his head to the roars of the bar's patrons. "What do you care?"

Vector stood, watching Durbe grabbing onto Yuma's arm. "Because he cares." He pushed Yuma's chair in and gave Ryoga a short wave. "Later, Naschy-poo."

The rest of the night passed without much incident, unless you counted Durbe huddling next to Mizael with a fresh cup of mediocre coffee straight from Alito's back room, or Yuma falling asleep mid-sentence while talking about idol games with Gilag and knocking six empty bottles of beer from the table (only one broke), or Gilag getting fed up with the third person in a row's karaoke of _Don't Stop Believin'_ and unplugging the entire karaoke machine, or Ryoga having to enlist Alito and Gilag's help dragging Yuma to the bathroom where they dunked his head in the sink until he woke up.

The rest of the night passed without incident, even when they got home and Yuma fell asleep again brushing his teeth and Ryoga had to drag him to bed, where he collapsed in his day clothes and fell asleep wondering if there was any truth to be had in what Vector told him.


	6. Chapter 6

The campsite Yuma had picked out was, true to Yuma’s very personality, at the top of the tallest and coldest mountain he could have chosen on the entire island. Granted, it was later in the year than Ryoga wanted to do it--between work and his dissertation and Yuma’s stress over the speech he had to give in one week, time had escaped them--but they both took this trip every year, both needed it, and Ryoga refused to disappoint Yuma by turning it down just because it was cold.

Yuma paused to consult the map. He didn't need the map, but Ryoga knew, and appreciated, that Yuma was giving Ryoga a chance to catch his breath and adjust the fifty pound backpack weighing him down. Every time Ryoga thought they had reached the top, he looked up and saw more mountain; now, the top of the mountain was clearly in sight and close by. A relief, as it was starting to get darker, and though the lightly snowy trails were soft, the dropping temperature would surely freeze over the rocks.

"Okay, we've got about half a kilometer left," Yuma said, clumsily folding the map back up with his heavily gloved hands and shoving it into his vest pocket. "I'm surprised it didn't snow as much this year."

"Can't complain," Ryoga said from behind the muffler on his face.

"Sure you can, you spent half the trek up here cursing the fact that you didn't bring snowshoes."

"I thought there would be more snow than this."

"Yeah, I wonder why there isn't more?"

Ryoga's snide comment about climate change went unnoticed as Yuma climbed higher.

He sighed and followed.

Even through three pairs of hiking socks, two layers of pants, a long sleeved shirt, a sweater, and a thick coat and gloves, Ryoga was still cold; though there wasn't much snow on the mountain, the wind, with few natural obstacles so high up, sliced through him. It would be nice to get to the top, set up their tent, and get out of the wind for the night...

Taking those final few steps up to the top was a mixed blessing; the scarce tree cover on the peak left the wind whipping up a frenzy and Ryoga shivering. Yuma consulted his compass, hunched over, and Ryoga stood close to him.

"What are you doing?"

Yuma rotated his compass. "Checking which direction faces east."

"Why?"

Yuma glanced up and lifted an eyebrow at Ryoga. His nose and lips, unprotected from the wind, were red and chapped. "So we'll face the sun when it rises tomorrow."

It was a nice sentiment, but as they tried to set up the tent in the freezing gusts, the tent was at constant risk of blowing away, and the ground was solid, making it quite a task to shove the tent stakes into the ground to anchor the tent. Yuma solved the issue by having Ryoga place rocks on the corner flaps while he forced the stakes into the ground with another heavy rock and his foot (though he muttered what Ryoga suspected were impolite words at the ground with each strike).

With the tent mercifully holding up, they crawled inside with their packs, took off their boots, and zipped it up; while it was by no means warm in the tent, the wind battering the tent was no longer cutting through their skin. Yuma hooked a dim electric lantern to the side of the tent, spread out his sleeping bag and thermal pad, and went to work digging through his pack for some food. Ryoga followed suit, taking out the portable stove and a pan.

DANGER! the side label on the stove warned, OPEN FLAME.

WARNING! a little tag on the roof of the tent warned, FLAMMABLE. DO NOT OPERATE FIRES INSIDE THE TENT.

The wind outside raged on.

“Yuma,” Ryoga began tiredly, “what should we--”

“Shark, what’s this?”

Ryoga turned, his stomach plummeting when he saw Yuma kneeling by Ryoga’s pack, rifling through it for some unknown reason, and now holding up a small container.

Oh no, that better not be the--

“Petroleum jelly?” Yuma’s voice dripped skepticism. “For…?”

Relief flooded Ryoga’s body. “What else would you--” He covered his face, the relief giving way to embarrassment as he realized what Yuma was implying. “Oh my god, Yuma, it’s for-- here--”

He pulled the jar out of Yuma’s hands, opened it, scooped a little of the greasy substance onto his finger, leaned close to Yuma’s face, and smeared it on his nose and lips.

“Ew, what are you doing?” Yuma rubbed at his face with the back of his hand.

“Your lips are dry.”

“So?”

Ryoga gave him a meaningful look, which Yuma, still wiping his face as he turned his attention to the camp stove, ignored.

“Well, it’s too windy outside to get this little flame going,” he mused, “so I guess we’ll have to do it in here.”

Ryoga looked up at the WARNING sign and frowned. “I don’t think--”

“It’s fine,” Yuma said, hooking up the small propane tank to the burner, “I’ve done this before.”

Ryoga’s mind flashed back to two months ago, when Yuma sliced his finger open with a cheese grater. The wound had healed, for the most part, but had left a discolored scar. “But--”

Yuma sat back and put his hands on his hips. The top of his head brushed the top of the tent. “As long as we don’t let the flame touch the fabric, it’s fine.” He grinned mischievously. “Unless you’re scared to take a little risk?”

“Are you calling me a chicken?”

“What if I am?”

Ryoga didn’t really have a response for that; the vague memory of their first meeting flashed through his mind as he thought of a witty response, and he ultimately came up with nothing witty at all. “Okay, but we’ll freeze to death if you burn this tent down and we don’t have anywhere to sleep.”

Yuma pried a can of soup open with a knife and dumped the contents into the pan. “I’m not _completely_ irresponsible.”

Ryoga hovered over the stove while Yuma stirred the soup, ready to dump water on any rogue flames. Part of him knew Yuma had the entire situation well under control, that he had done this very thing with his father for years, and that he wasn't dumb enough to let the tent catch on fire. But there was a tiny part of him who still remembered the clumsy, danger-prone Yuma Tsukumo, the thirteen year old dumbass around whom nothing ever went according to plan. It was this second part of him that was responsible for him crouching with a bottle of water next to the small flame licking at the tin pan filled with slowly warming soup under the pretense of "getting warmed up" (partially true, but not the primary motivation). He needn't have worried; Yuma didn't catch the tent on fire, and in fact never even came close to having any kind of fire accident.

Canned vegetable soup wasn't a great meal, nor was it entirely filling, but the little tin mug Yuma poured it into was hot and comfortable on his cold hands, and the trickle of it down his throat warmed him from the inside; Yuma had even been thoughtful enough to get the kind without onions.

He was comfortable and sleepy when Yuma offered to take the pan and cups outside to rinse them really quick, a task Ryoga argued could wait until morning when the wind hopefully had died down, but Yuma pointed out that Ryoga hated when Yuma left dirty dishes in the sink overnight and it wasn't any different now that they were out of the apartment. So Yuma braced himself and unzipped the tent, all warmth from the fleeting fire vanishing in an instant as the freezing air filled the tiny space in the few seconds that Yuma needed to squeeze out of the tent.

When he heard the splash of water and Yuma cursing, Ryoga dove for his pack; with numb fingers he dug through the spare sweaters and socks until his fingers found a small box buried at the bottom.

It wasn't the most ideal of circumstances, or the most romantic, but it was a good opportunity, as long as Ryoga could work up the courage to do it.

The cursing grew louder. The tent flap unzipped. Ryoga shoved the box into the pocket of his hoodie, casually returning to browsing through his pack for an extra pair of socks, trying to ignore the resurgence of frigid wind in the tent for the split second between Yuma tumbling back in and zipping it back up with frozen fingers.

Yuma dove for the sleeping bags and blankets, burying himself in his like a mummy in a tomb. "Brr... Shark... we're not waiting this long next year to go camping."

That was solid forethought.

"Where did you leave the pans?" Ryoga asked, glancing at the tent door. "Outside?"

"Yeah."

"Hm." Ryoga clicked off the lantern, plunging them into semi-darkness. He clambered through his own blankets and sleeping bag, pulling it close to Yuma's. "Did you fail the third grade?"

"Are you being mean, Shark?"

"You see, water turns into ice if it gets too cold--"

"Shark! Quit being mean! I left them outside the tent because if they were going to freeze anyway at least it wouldn't be frozen metal near my feet!"

This was sound logic but Ryoga teased Yuma for a few minutes longer, going through each stage of matter in annoying detail, until Yuma, pouting fiercely, zipped his sleeping bag over his face.

Ryoga tugged at the zipper until Yuma's red nose was visible and gave it a small kiss. "That's okay, you're keeping the bears out of the tent."

"There aren't any bears in these mountains," Yuma argued, but he let Ryoga unzip the sleeping bags and work on zipping both of them together. "Most large bears in Japan live in Hokkaido anyway, and there have only been--"

"Please don't say 'there have only been thirty bear related fatalities in the past fifty years,' it won't help."

"Thirty-three."

"Yuma, help with this zipper, I can't feel my fingers."

They huddled together, cursing the zipper teeth when they got caught on the sleeping bag fabric (occasionally) or caught on nothing at all (often) until Yuma successfully linked them together and lined the zipper inside the bags with a blanket so neither of them would end up with the tiny bits of cold metal digging into their clothes should the bags shift around while they slept (a likelihood, seeing as Yuma couldn't stay still even while asleep).

"That's better," Yuma said blissfully, snuggling into the bag. "Nice and warm."

Ryoga followed suit. It _was_ much warmer now, with the two of them sharing body heat and the blanket and thermal pads keeping the cold from the frozen earth from seeping upward. And Yuma, affectionate as always, had wrapped himself around Ryoga's body, his unfairly toned arms clenching Ryoga close. It wouldn't take long for Yuma to fall asleep - it wouldn't take Ryoga long, either, given how cold and tired and stiff he was from the climb, but Yuma could sleep at the drop of a hat - but they were comfortable now, even as the tent whipped in the wind above them, and it might be the perfect time...

But every time Ryoga opened his mouth, no noise came out. Yuma's breathing deepened into soft snores and when Ryoga finally managed to whisper Yuma's name, Yuma was already fast asleep.

_In the morning,_ he told himself, _you have to do it in the morning, maybe at sunrise... that's romantic, right?_

He inhaled deeply... exhaled... and let himself drift off to sleep.

* * *

 

Sunrise had come and gone when Ryoga woke to the soft sound of metal clinking somewhere near his feet and the soft rustle of the tent in the much gentler breeze. He blinked a few times, recognizing that Yuma was no longer curled up next to him, but instead--

A tiny black box sat next to Ryoga's head where Yuma had been and his blood went colder than the air.

He sat up.

"Good morning," Yuma said, stirring whatever he was cooking over the stove with repeated _clink, clinks_. "Sleep well?"

Ryoga's hand wrapped around the box. "Did... you..."

Yuma looked up and smiled; it was soft and shy, very much unlike him but somehow incredibly endearing in a way that made Ryoga's heart skip. "It was in your pocket last night, and when we were curled up it was digging into my hip bone so I..."

Ryoga groaned and pressed a hand to his forehead. Of course; he'd taken it out of his pack and shoved it into his pocket last night, only to forget to take it out again before falling asleep...

"Hey." Yuma turned the stove off and crawled over to Ryoga, kneeling in front of him on top of the sleeping bags. "Are... are you gonna ask?"

There was an odd eagerness in his voice, in the way he knelt with his hands between his knees, in the way his eyes widened. Ryoga _couldn't_ chicken out here, not now, not when he'd chickened out in almost every other aspect of their relationship from the time they were dumb teenagers to the time he failed miserably to ask Yuma out first, to the first time Yuma had to kiss him because he couldn't bring himself to initiate it. And yet, somehow, Yuma was still the one who had to push Ryoga to _this_ because he couldn't find the right time to do it yesterday while they were hiking, or making dinner, or falling asleep, and he couldn't even wake up on time to do it under the orange glow of the sunrise.

He fiddled with the box. "Yuma..." Inhale. Exhale. Longer exhale. Still exhaling.

"Shark, are you breathing?"

Ryoga thrust the box at Yuma. "I want to marry you."

Yuma lifted his eyebrows before bursting out laughing. "Oh my god, Shark. You're supposed to _ask_."

"I know, I just--" Ryoga ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. This one thing he wanted to do, _needed_ to do, and he couldn't even do it _right.._ _._ "Will you... I..."

A soft _click_ alerted him to Yuma opening the box, and he looked up in time to see Yuma's eyes widen; his face lit up, from his eyes to his smile, as he plucked the tiny silver band from the box and held it up between the two of them.

"Shark," Yuma murmured, eyes glistening, "of course I will."

He slipped the ring onto his finger -- a little tight; it would need some adjustments -- and crawled the gap between them, placed his hands on Ryoga's face, and kissed him.

As they sank back onto their sleeping bags, arms and legs tangled together just as tightly as the bags themselves, their breakfast sat untouched at the tent door.


	7. Epilogue

Yuma had abandoned the maroon suit and bowtie of his youthful attempts at dressing up for a black suit and tie. They had spent the morning ironing it after months hanging in the closet, as Yuma rarely dressed up even for his own museum events, but since Yuma would be speaking at the same event as the mayor, Ryoga had insisted that Yuma wear something dressier than slacks. Yuma brushed imaginary lint from his sleeve and eyed the refreshments table.

"Just one drink?"

"Yuma, no, remember what happens _every_ time you have _just one drink."_

He pouted, still gazing wistfully at the table.

Important people from all over the city filtered into the room, wearing suits and fancy cocktail dresses, and several of them made their way over to Yuma, where they chatted idly about how it was some kind of honor to meet the Duel Carnival champion and Yuma stammered through his thanks, and Ryoga stood next to him, completely invisible, as if he hadn't been a finalist in the very same tournament.

Still, he was glad, because he didn't particularly enjoy the limelight anymore.

The mayor approached them as Yuma inched toward a tray of shrimp sitting on a nearby table. They shook hands, the mayor went on the same spiel about how it was an honor, blah, blah, blah, and when he finally seemed to notice Ryoga standing next to Yuma, addressed Yuma about him instead of asking directly.

"And would you introduce me to this friend of yours?"

Yuma gripped Ryoga's elbow and said in a rather loud voice, "this is my _fiance_ _,_ Ryoga Kamishiro."

Several people glanced over curiously, including (Ryoga could see them at the refreshments table sipping faux-expensive wine out of faux-expensive wine glasses) Mizael and Durbe. The mayor simply furrowed his brows and peered at Ryoga.

"Ryoga Kamishiro... yes, of course, the semifinalist. Fiance, hm? Found love at the tournament or after?"

A drink sounded nice, actually.

"Ryoga and I were friends before the tournament and we stayed friends after the tournament," Yuma said, his grip tightening on Ryoga's arm.

It had been a one-sided friendship on Yuma's part before the tournament; Ryoga found Yuma's intrusiveness and _kattobing_ spirit annoying. But Yuma very likely didn't realize that it was _during_ the tournament when Ryoga started falling for him, during that very same semifinal match; Yuma didn't express reciprocal feelings until well after the tournament, well after the events with Barian World and Don Thousand, at which point Ryoga had almost given up on his puppy crush on Yuma.

It worked out, in the end.

The mayor simply made a soft humming sound, wished Yuma luck on his speech, and walked away. Barely five seconds passed before Mizael and Durbe filled the spot where the mayor had stood, Durbe stoically drinking a wine so pale it almost looked like water, and Mizael cutting all pretenses and staring directly at Yuma's hand.

"Congratulations," Durbe said, "though I'm annoyed I found out like this."

"Sorry," Yuma mumbled.

"We wanted to tell you in person," Ryoga said, "and I was going to until the mayor interrupted."

"Wait, that was the mayor?"

"Yuma, who did you think it was?"

Yuma just moaned and covered his face, the now-fitting ring catching the glint of the dozens of fake chandeliers in the conference hall.

"Anyway," Mizael said, "when's the wedding?"

Around them, people started shuffling to the front of the hall, toward the stage. The speeches were to convene shortly, it seemed, and judging by Yuma's increasingly ashen face when he pulled his hands back down, he knew it.

Ryoga squeezed Yuma's hand. "We were thinking of just doing a small civil thing, not really a... a wedding..."

Nether Durbe nor Mizael had time to reply before the mayor tapped the microphone on the stage to get everyone's attention.

"Thank you all for joining us this evening for the opening of the Heartland Museum of Game and Sport's newest fifteenth anniversary exhibit of the World Duel Carnival!"

A smattering of polite applause.

"As you know, the tournament aimed at fostering new friendships while testing the participants' stamina and perseverance. Out of many duelists, only a handful muscled their way out of the preliminaries..."

Yuma fumbled with a paper he'd tucked in an inside pocket. He had gone through a dozen versions of his speech before finding something that didn't make him want to throw it in a fire, and while the end result was short, it was something he was satisfied enough with to give it in front of all of Heartland's wealthiest citizens and prominent dignitaries. Ryoga slid his hand across Yuma's back before resting it on his shoulders.

"You'll be fine."

Yuma nodded as the mayor droned on about _disastrous failure of infrastructure_ and endangerment _to the lives of the participants and spectators._

Mizael stepped closer. "The tournament was largely a failure, so why is it being celebrated?"

"I... I think they want to--"

"And now, without further ado, please welcome the World Duel Champion, Yuma Tsukumo!"

There was another polite smattering of applause as several people turned toward Yuma, who reached for Durbe's glass.

"W-wait, that's--"

Yuma downed it in one mouthful, face twisting in a frown, and swallowed. "That was water."

"I was trying to tell you."

Ryoga gave Yuma a little push. "Get up there and get it over with."

Sighing heavily, Yuma dragged himself up to the stage and stood at the microphone.

Paper rustled.

"Um..."

Everyone stared at him. Ryoga felt his own heart beating anxiously.

"Um... when I was younger, I lost my parents."

This was not what Yuma had planned.

"I missed them a lot. I thought about them every day. Even though I was... depressed, a lot of the time, I pretended to be fine because otherwise people would pick on me."

Yuma continued to stare at his paper, which Ryoga knew had none of those words on it. He didn't know what was compelling Yuma on, but the timidity in his voice gave way to a bolder, sentimental tone as he recounted his time in the WDC, from his more bizarre duels to a particularly amusing anecdote involving a man obsessed with tomatoes, all the way up to the finals...

"I saw, firsthand, that my belief in dueling as a way to connect with others was being challenged. Many of the other participants had no desire to connect with their opponents. I began to wonder if it was worth continuing on, when the dreams my opponents held for the future were revenge-driven. I wasn't having fun, and neither were they."

Ryoga felt more than a twinge of guilt. He felt Mizael and Durbe's gazes on him and he turned his head to the side enough that his hair would cover his eyes from them, in case the burning in his eyes turned into something else.

"The winner of the tournament would receive a great prize: any wish they had, granted... when I won, my wish was simple. I wanted all those people I dueled to be happy."

And that wish had been fulfilled, though it took another several months of heartbreak and betrayal to attain, but Yuma didn't mention any of that, just sighed and smiled at the ceiling.

"I made good friends at the tournament, despite it all. Friends who care about me, who... who love me. That's the point of dueling. It connects people, makes them happy. People become friends. No one who duels someone else could help but become friends. That was my wish, and I hope that, after all this time, my wish can continue on."

He practically ran away from the microphone before most of the crowd noticed he was finished, and when the applause started, it was disjointed at first before finding a steady rhythm. Yuma made a beeline right for Ryoga, but the mayor grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him back to the microphone as he made his concluding remarks, adjourned the gathering, and invited the guests to make their way from the conference hall to the museum across the street for the grand opening of the exhibit.

"That was sweet," a voice said in Ryoga's ear, and he turned to face Vector, wearing a pair of jeans and his gaudy leather jacket with faux-fur trim. Several of the wealthier donors shot him disapproving looks, which he clearly could not have cared less about. (Knowing Vector, he would probably make it his goal for the evening to swindle cash from every single one of them.)

"I can't imagine _any_ reason why you would have been invited to this event, Vector."

"Eh." Vector held up a half-empty glass. "Heard there was an open bar."

"Heard from wh--"

"Doesn't matter!" Vector slapped Ryoga's back. "I couldn't help but notice that you finally put a ring on it! Good work, Naschy!"

"If you place that hand on me again, I will break it."

Vector shrugged but removed his hand. "Where's your sister?"

"Couldn't make it." Ryoga had been disappointed to learn that Rio and Kotori were trapped in New York for an extra week thanks to issues at the airline and with Rio's company credit card being stolen. The fashion agency they had worked with provided them housing until the situation resolved, but wouldn't give them the money for the flight home. It was a shame; Vector now knew that Ryoga and Yuma were engaged before Ryoga's own sister. She would kill him.

Vector nodded sagely. "The life of a fashionista, eh? Anyway, there's an open bar with my name on it, so see you later, Naschy." He nodded at Durbe and Mizael, who were determinedly not looking at him. "Doobles, Miza-chan."

"Vector," Durbe replied tonelessly, while Mizael pointedly ignored him.

He was barely out of eyesight when Yuma arrived, having managed to escape the mayor at last.

"Glad that's over with... the mayor might be more annoying than- ah!"

Ryoga pulled Yuma into a tight embrace, resting his chin on Yuma's shoulder. _Why is he so damn tall._ "I'm proud of you."

"Oh..." Yuma's arms wrapped around Ryoga's shoulders. "Thanks... it just kind of tumbled out, you know?"

"I thought it was poignant," Durbe said, tapping the empty glass in his hand with a finger. "Anyway, I need some coffee."

With a nod and a _see you soon,_ Mizael and Durbe headed toward the drinks, leaving Yuma and Ryoga alone in the sea of other people chatting around the hall.

Yuma pulled away from Ryoga and smiled. "I'm ready to go home."

"You don't want to see the exhibit?"

They linked arms and weaved their way to the door. "Not really." He gave Ryoga a playful shove with his shoulder. "No artifacts they could have would be better than the one I'll have at home with me."

Ryoga frowned, trying to remember if they had a trophy or anything in the storage closet, but came up blank. "What would that be?"

They walked into the chilly night, immediately blinded by flashing neon lights advertising all the joys of Heartland City, imploring people to visit bars and restaurants, museums and sporting events. They were gaudy remnants of the inner city's first mayor, untouched by time or the mayor's mysterious and sudden absence. But it was his home, and Yuma's, and they were happy here, together.

"Not what, Shark." Yuma linked his hand with Ryoga's and smiled down at him as they walked toward their modest apartment, his nose already turning red in the chill. "You."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope the ending is satisfactorily sweet and above all, I hope you enjoyed reading it. I wish my brain could focus on one thing at a time, which is why it took months longer than I wanted to finish it, but regardless, I enjoyed writing this. To Lukas, your generosity helped tremendously. My kitty is in perfect health and as cute and big and loveable as ever, and his bills are only two months from being paid off. Thank you, and everyone else who has supported me all this time. Kattobing!


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